Dough. I’m thinking of donuts. Of a bakery. Mmm. I love how bakeries smell. Teeheehee. I’m getting giddy just thinking about it. Pizza. That Italian restaurant that I don’t know how to spell. Oh well. Hehe, that rhymed.

She made dough from bits of acorn flour and last fall’s mud from the edge of the small pond out by the apple orchard. Whipping it into a semblance of pie crust required quail eggs and two snails, lightly smushed. When it was finished, she filled the doughy crust with everything a young woman loved at fifteen: dog fur and paperback books with pencilled prices on the inside cover, all under a dollar. Sprinkled crimped notebook paper over the top, topped with Converse shoe laces. Bake under the ferns in April, when they are barely fiddleheads. Devour.

OH dough you can turn into bread i love bread, bread fills me with happiness and calories. man you go dough don’t sop being doughy. The world loves you. Don’t forget that. Every time i cross a bakery i cry thinking of how bad i want to eat you. Your delicious.